Even the most sublime canvas
Is but a selective window—
We see what we choose to see,
And the greatest artist
Still filters light and color
Through selective rods and cones.
The rain pours down,
Saturating a freshly plowed field
Bounded by a low wall;
A muddy path traverses the base,
Mountains hover in the distance—
A simple scene captured from
A second-story bedroom view.
What the artist left out,
That which the retina chose to ignore,
Were the wrought iron bars
Embedded in the open window—
No bars embedded in the window of his soul—
At least, he refused to acknowledge them,
Or spared us the pain.
Copyright 2012 © Brian T. Maurer